Shattered Destiny
by ElvisTheCat
Summary: KOTOR-era. No longer content to live as an oddity among her clan, a young Mandalorian decides to explore the mysteries of the Force.
1. Chapter 1 : One Last Hunt

**A/N:** This story takes place 13 years after KOTOR-2 and assumes light-side endings to both games with gender neutrality for both Revan and the Exile.

**Full Summary:** No longer content to live as an oddity among her clan, a young Mandalorian decides to explore the mysteries of the Force. When a tragic mistake results in her exile from the Jedi Order, Shukla Ven embarks on a journey of discovery that leads her into the heart of a looming civil war, guided by a Master determined to complete her training in defiance of the Jedi Council.

* * *

_Beskar_. The word itself was as light and hard as the metal that bore the name.

The perfectly balanced blade of beskar felt natural in her grasp. The strips of leather woven around the hilt kept it lodged firmly in her palm as she grasped it with an armored hand. She had heard it said that the only thing stronger than beskar was a Mandalorian's heart. It had also been said that the only thing tougher than a Mandalorian's armor was the warrior within.

Both statements would be tested in this challenge, she thought as she moved carefully and soundlessly forward into the darkened cave. Armed with the curved blade of her beskad, Shukla Ven crept closer to her prey, careful not to wake it from its slumber. The task of moving quietly was made much more difficult by her beskar'gam; the metal plates of her layered armor had not been designed with stealth in mind.

A sleepy animalistic grunt from the darkness ahead let her know that her prey was close by. Ven grinned with grim satisfaction when her visor adjusted to the darkness and the dim light from behind could be seen reflecting off the dark purple scales of the beast she hunted. Those scales, she noted in passing, were each the size of her own hands.

Easily the deadliest predator on the moon, the drexl was a creature to be respected. Their long lithe bodies were armored with thick reptilian scales and their leathery wings were powerful enough to keep them in flight during even the most powerful of storms. Their mouths could engulf a man whole and their teeth would tear flesh as easily as any blade.

They were brutal creatures, and on the entire moon of Dxun, this one was the dominant male. She estimated that its wingspan alone was nearly thirty meters.

The tactic of approaching by stealth seemed odd, since most any Mandalorian would rather have assaulted their prey directly, but others had tried that before with this very creature and had achieved little more than becoming an armor-plated meal. They had been foolish and their clan was thus strengthened by their absence.

Unlike them, Ven had entered the lair unnoticed and approached close enough to the creature that its entire body was visible. Its head faced away toward the back of the cave. The creature's body heaved with every breath, which was doubtlessly the source of the foul stench of decayed flesh that assaulted her sinuses. The drexl's great wings were folded at its sides while it lied curled in a heap that occupied the entire width of the cave, which barely seemed capable of housing such a beast.

She found her target: a section of the creature's body just beneath the base of its massive head. Not only was it where she expected her beskad could do the most damage, but in the ensuing struggle it would be the only place she could hang on to the creature by its bony protrusions and take refuge between its massive wings to protect herself from being crushed into the rock walls of the cave, since not even beskar'gam could protect her from being ground to a bloody pulp elsewhere. The greatest difficulty, of course, would be managing to not be thrown from the beast before it fell.

Time was against her, and if Ven hesitated to act quickly the sleeping beast would be aroused by her scent. The time for action was upon her and she clenched the beskad, crouched silently, and then leapt.

Mandalorian iron penetrated the thick reptilian scale with more ease than expected; the beskad slipped deep into its flesh and the curve of the blade anchored it well enough to be a firm handle. What began as a shriek of pain from the great beast quickly changed to a bellowing roar of rage while Ven fumbled to take hold of one of the drexl's horns with her free hand.

The creature bucked instinctively in an effort to throw her off or crush her against the rock, but one booted foot managed to lodge itself under a scale and gave her the means to stay flat against its back. She gave up all hope of grasping a horn and instead placed all her trust into grasping the hilt of her beskad in her left hand with as much strength as she could muster. With her free hand, she loosed the ascension-gun from her leg that she had used to scale the sheer cliff to reach the monster's lair. She placed the folded hook under a scale and fired the gun, which drove the hook deep into the beast's flesh. She dropped the gun and wound her armored right arm into the cable.

Firmly anchored to the creature, she could then see that her placement of the blade had been perfect: driven into the back of the creature's throat. The raging drexl's hot black blood escaped the mortal wound, slicked its scales, and coated her armor. It slammed against the cave wall twice, which caused her hand to slip from the beskad, but the cable that secured her arm to the beast held fast and allowed her to recover her hold on the blade's hilt. The drexl turned around quickly and tried to scrape her off with the rock, but the bony structure of its wings shielded her from being crushed while hardened Mandalorian armor protected her flesh.

Confident that she could outlast her prey, Ven allowed herself to smile and enjoy the thrill of the moment. That sense of assured victory fled quickly, however, when the creature did the unexpected; it lunged for the cave's opening, spread its wings, and then took flight. It let loose a roar of both agony and challenge while it soared into the sky.

The reality of her situation was immediately apparent. Ven was _riding_ the drexl, high in the skies of Dxun with the jungle-covered ground now far below. She found the strength to tighten her grip on the beskad and she trembled with the thrilling mix of exhilaration and terror.

The nearby world of Onderon was visible on the horizon when the creature began to dive toward the jungle and the humid air whistled loudly against her armor while they flew at an alarming speed. Verdant swaths of trees dimpled by small bodies of water stretched out in all directions below, and ahead of them the jungle ended abruptly at the ocean's edge.

"I've got it," an electronic voice chimed in her helmet. Before Ven could bark a warning that she was _attached_ to the creature, a supercharged particle beam split the air directly in front of the drexl, which caused it to pull up and slow to a near stop in a single beat of its monstrous wings.

Before it could change direction, Ven seized the opportunity and put all her strength into _twisting_ the beskad. The drexl's bellow of agony sounded hollow; its terrible voice was muted and its strength waned as it began to choke on its own blood. It thrashed violently in the air, which finally succeeded in dislodging her grip on the beskad.

The monster's pained hesitation was its undoing. Another blast of energy from the ground was aimed perfectly; it left a smoking hole in the top of the drexl's scaled head that killed it instantly. Ven thought quickly and released the ascension-gun's cable, then pushed herself off the beast's gliding body into freefall.

The ground rushed up to meet her, but at the press of a button on her wrist, a plume of fire erupted from the small pack on her back that slowed the last handful of meters of her descent enough to alight on the jungle floor with enough grace that she only needed to drop to one knee to keep her balance. With the rocket pack silenced, Ven started to stand.

Something in her mind registered danger and she dove forward and rolled away just before the drexl's massive corpse, no longer held aloft by its rigid wings, made a thunderous impact with the ground.

Ven collected herself and stood, then turned to look at the carcass. Even devoid of life it looked fearsome, but the surge of triumph she felt welling up inside her would not be diminished in the least. She lifted a wing to remove the beskad from the drexl's flesh and then knelt to wipe away as much of the black blood as possible with a large leaf from a crushed tree before she sheathed it on her thigh.

A few moments later, the snapping and crunching of brush under armored feet announced the arrival of her partner. His large stature and dark armor made for an imposing presence against the backdrop of the jungle. He paused for a moment to consider their kill before his attention turned to Ven.

"Not bad, kid."

It was the closest thing she would ever get to a compliment from _him_. She removed her helmet to reveal a proud grin, but despite being free from its confines, her short brown hair was slicked with sweat and stuck to her head. "That was the most amazing thing I've ever experienced," she said gleefully.

The man grunted. "Zakrad's hunting party has been trying to flush this drexl from its den for weeks. They won't be happy about it, but they'll certainly respect our victory."

Ven rolled her dark eyes and faked a frown. "He'll find a way to diminish my role since I was hunting with _you_."

"Hah," the other said contemptuously. "I'll be sure to remind him that his entire squad got beaten to the kill by an old man and a girl. I have to admit, though—that bit of riding the drexl was unexpected."

"I wasn't exactly given a choice."

"So, that little toy of yours finally came in handy," he added to poke fun at the small rocket pack integrated into her beskar'gam.

"Is that a touch of jealousy I hear in your voice, Mandalore?" she teased. "I'm surprised you haven't tried one yourself."

"I have in my mind, but that's the only part of me still young enough to enjoy it," he pointed out, then gestured toward the corpse. "I'll keep watch here and keep the scavengers away. Go get the cargo sled and a few extra hands to haul this back to the bunker."

* * *

Mandalore watched as Ven left and allowed himself a prideful smile. Her blood-covered beskar'gam and triumphant posture would be unmistakable when Zakrad and his squad saw her.

He turned his head to listen to the silence that had been following them through the jungle for the last several hours. There hadn't been any indication that they were being followed—not so much as a snapped twig—but there was always an uneasy, unnatural quiet that had pursued them ever since their departure from the bunker early that morning.

"What did you think?" he asked the silent watcher.

Something like a veil in his awareness was pulled away and a fair familiar face emerged from the jungle. "You were right," she said softly as she approached his side and stared to where Ven had disappeared through the brush. "She is drawing upon the Force whether she realizes it or not."

Mandalore took in her face and found it somewhat less fair than he remembered, and her long brown hair was just starting to show a few strands of gray. "I've never hidden the truth of what she is from her," he said pointedly, "only _who_ she is."

Bastila's eyes were hard when she faced him. "She knows what she is, and yet you still lead her into battle and make death a common part of her life?"

He wished that she could see the scowl on his face through his armor. "Whatever else she is, she is a Mandalorian _first_," he insisted, then gestured toward the fallen drexl. "The convergence is only two cycles away. That beast would have crossed the atmospheric bridge to Onderon and killed hundreds before their beast riders could slay it."

"And instead you teach her to hunt and kill it for something it _might_ do," Bastila countered. "Did you also forget to explain that this great beast kept the others of its species in line? That next season there won't be just one, but three beasts competing for dominance in the vacuum of power, each also capable of killing hundreds?"

"Then we'll have three times the glory next season," Mandalore harrumphed. "I only mentioned the deaths of hundreds to appeal to those Jedi sensibilities of yours."

Bastila's face softened. "I'm sorry that my sensibilities aren't as simple as they once were."

Mandalore snorted in amusement. "That's not a bad thing." He looked again toward where Ven had disappeared into the jungle. "Ven's a good kid," he noted, "but she's mastered every challenge this moon has to offer. What little she lacks in physical strength, she makes up for in tenacity – as all my warriors do. But there's something more to her, and others are starting to take notice." He looked to Bastila once again. "She can't stay hidden among our people much longer."

Bastila nodded her understanding. "I had hoped she would adopt your people as easily as you adopted her."

"She has," he said confidently. "Ven is as much a Mandalorian as I am, but she knows there's something different about her." His voice lowered. "She remembers her mother."

Bastila was slow to respond. "She does?" she asked rhetorically.

"She remembers a few lessons about the Force," he added, "and practices when she thinks I'm not aware."

"She hides this from you?"

Mandalore shifted. "Ven knows our history. She probably worries that I might disapprove."

"And do you?" she asked directly.

Mandalore shook his head. "Never. Not with her. If anyone will disapprove, it will be your Council."

Bastila blinked in uncertainty. "The Council… Oh." She grasped one arm with the other and appeared to consider carefully. "You don't know what you ask."

"Did you think I asked you here just to relocate her? If protection were all Ven needed, then there's no safer place in the galaxy for her than with our clan."

"Of course," Bastila conceded. "To ask that she be _trained_, though… That is something of a surprise."

"She'll ask for it herself when she finds the words."

"Most of the Council doesn't even know she exists," Bastila reminded him. "And those that do will be very difficult to sway."


	2. Chapter 2 : Leaving Home

Bastila spent most of the trip from Dxun to Coruscant meditating in relative silence, ignoring the low hum of the hyperdrive and the swirling tangle of hyperspace outside the small ship. She had made a few attempts at conversation with her passenger at first, but Shukla Ven expressed an almost complete disinterest in socializing.

The young woman's terse responses to nearly every question were frustrating, but the deliberately polite tone with which they were delivered was maddening. One topic had held Ven's interest for more than a single statement of fact, but Bastila had little knowledge of removing dried drexl blood from the links, swivels and servos of Mandalorian armor, so even that proved to be unfruitful.

Ven had spent the entirety of the trip going through the dull blue plates of her armor, cleaning each one individually and testing its components before setting it aside and moving to the next in a process that looked like a ritual. She fit just about every expectation Bastila would have of a jungle-dwelling Mandalorian, right down to the sweat-stained gray bodysuit. Even her vanity didn't seem to extend much beyond personal hygiene, but it did thankfully include it.

When Bastila noticed that her passenger was examining the last plate, she made another attempt to breach the formidable conversation barrier. "I noticed that you prefer to be called by your clan name, Ven. Is there a reason you don't like to be called Shukla?" Bastila mentally chastised herself for having asked a close-ended question, and braced herself for a simple one-word reply.

Ven didn't answer immediately, but instead concentrated on using a sonic-chisel to loosen a speck of dried blood from a crevice in the armor plate, then brushed it away and set the plate aside. "When I was first adopted and given my name," she finally answered, "I could not pronounce _Shukla_." She then looked at Bastila. "You ask a lot of questions," she observed.

"I'm just trying to learn more about you," Bastila explained courteously. "I apologize if that makes you feel awkward."

Ven's face contorted into confusion. "You are jetii, yes? Why do you not just read my mind?"

"Read your… No, no," Bastila replied with a suppressed laugh. "The Force doesn't work quite that way. I can sense _feelings_. Very strong feelings can sometimes reveal thoughts, but mind-reading is beyond the abilities of even very powerful Jedi." She smiled at the young woman. "Is that why you've been so quiet? You thought I was reading your mind?"

An amused smile crept up Ven's face. "It appears the stories I have heard of the jetiise may have grown in the telling."

"So it seems. Such things happen," Bastila conceded. "Especially since there are so few of us left."

"What of your swords?" Ven inquired curiously. "Are they made of light?"

Bastila nodded. "In a way. The blade is plasma surrounded by a containment field."

"What about… _haatyc'orar_?" Ven asked, stretching her arms out and spreading her fingers. "I forget your word for it."

Bastila's smile vanished and her voice softened. "Lightning. That is very much real, but seldom used except by those who have fallen to the Dark Side."

"Dark Side?" Ven asked, seeking clarification.

Bastila was reluctant to begin philosophical discussions about the Force with a sensitive that hadn't even been accepted for training, but now that Ven was being social, she felt the need to at least entertain her curiosity. "It is the Force," she explained, "misused in anger, hatred, or fear."

Ven was thoughtful. "Strength, but no heart."

"Not quite so simple as that, but yes," Bastila answered.

"Have you used it?" Ven asked her directly.

Bastila hesitated. "I have," she admitted reluctantly. "But I was guided back from that path by a good friend." She noted that Ven seemed to be satisfied with the answer. She took the opportunity to run a check of the ship's systems and see how much time remained before they would reach Coruscant.

"I remember a woman," Ven said quietly, drawing Bastila's attention. "A cruel woman, with powers like the jetiise. She tried to teach these to me when I was very young." She turned her head to look at the Jedi. "Do you know who she was?"

Bastila wrestled with whether it was her place to reveal what she knew of Ven's past. "Perhaps. But that is something we should not discuss until the Council has met with you."

"Did she give birth to me?" Ven asked with a hint of indignation.

Bastila was quiet for a moment before finally admitting, "Yes, she was your mother."

"_Dar'buir,_" Ven spat venomously. The young woman looked forward and her sneer slowly diminished. "My _true_ mother adopted me into her family."

Despite expecting there to be issues with that topic, Bastila had been taken aback by the ferocity of Ven's feelings. She made no effort to correct or comfort, however. The Council would need to see the extent of those feelings for themselves, even if it would be looked upon unfavorably.

"Is she the reason why I was hidden among Mando'ade?" Ven asked.

Bastila frowned inwardly. It was an all too familiar sensation of wrongness to be withholding what she knew of the young woman's past. "We're coming up on Coruscant," she said, glancing at the console. "You'll get the answers you seek soon enough."

* * *

Carth managed to hide his disgust and remain standing in a dignified military pose while the delegation of Senators and their junior representatives slowly filed out of the Chancellor's office. Once only a small cadre of so-called _restorationist_ Senators and advisors remained, Chancellor Gholtine gestured for the guards to close the broad wooden doors and activate the sound dampeners.

Carth straightened his bright red military jacket and glared at the Chancellor. "You can't be serious about this," he bemoaned. "Threatening to use military force is only going to make matters worse."

Gholtine, a slight human man with what Carth regarded to be a better sense for fashion than politics, pulled back the heavy sleeves of his green robe and returned the glare with a look of disdain. "Admiral Onasi, this is hardly a trivial matter. Nor is it a trivial threat. Those whining windbags will already get their tariff reduction extended – they're just trying to get more concessions out of the Republic, and it won't be tolerated."

"But a blockade, Sir?" Carth countered. "They're our own citizens."

"Not if they get their way," the Chancellor snorted. "We all have a duty to aid the Republic with rebuilding worlds destroyed by war. Their little coalition thinks they should be exempt from their civic duty – that they can flagrantly disregard the law, or worse, secede from the Republic to avoid paying their fair share and rejoin once Reconstruction is finished."

"With all due respect, Sir, their 'fair share' is anything but fair. Most of those trade agreements haven't been altered or examined for nearly twenty years," Carth pointed out. "Their worlds – their economies – are suffocating under the burden. Their best and brightest workers are relocating to worlds where they can actually afford to raise a family."

"The only thing being discussed here are trade goods," the Chancellor said angrily. "The regulations exist for a purpose – so that worlds under reconstruction can acquire the resources they need at reasonable prices."

Carth shook his head. "The law isn't applied equally, no matter how you try to justify it. Any world with an economy based on a commodity that can be used in reconstruction is struggling just to stay out of poverty because some bureaucrats are terrified of another repeat of what Czerka and the Exchange did to Taris' reconstruction."

"A fear that is not misplaced, I assure you," the Chancellor grunted. "I respect your advice on military matters, Carth. But you'll need to retire from being the Admiral of the Republic Fleet and get yourself elected to the Senate if you want to lecture me on political issues."

Carth raised his head and spoke disdainfully. "Apologies, Chancellor. I was under the impression that concerned citizens were allowed to express their opinions in a democracy. My mistake."

Chancellor Gholtine silenced the almost inaudible snickering of one of his advisors with a sharp look, then stood and approached Carth to stand face-to-face with him. "The blockade has already been approved by the Senate. Will you enforce it?"

"I'm a soldier; "I'll do my duty," Carth conceded before raising a finger to emphasize a point. "Just make sure that my _duty_ doesn't run afoul of my _oath_ to defend the Republic, Chancellor."


	3. Chapter 3 : Visions of the Past

The skyline of Coruscant was an unending forest of durasteel and ferrocrete buildings that stretched out in every direction for as far as the eye could see. By the time their small shuttle had descended from the atmosphere, the setting sun had bathed the entire cityscape in blood-red, leaving much of the skylane traffic in kilometers-long shadows of the tallest buildings. Speeders and ships came and went haphazardly, like a colony of insects with barely even the slightest hint of order.

On any other visit, Ven would have admired the audacity that must have possessed the city's architects to attempt such a feat of urban design, but as their ship approached and touched-down at the Jedi Temple, she found herself wrestling with regret over her decision to leave her people. She had removed her helmet of dull blue Mandalorian iron as a token of respect and a demonstration of her willingness to part with her 'attachment' to her culture. Although, that demonstration wasn't entirely honest, and she suspected that Bastila had sensed as much.

In her hands, Ven's helm became the target of nervous fiddling, and the more she fiddled, the more she wished she could simply ignore this troublesome 'Force' and return to Dxun.

However, honor demanded that she develop any ability that might benefit or bring glory to her clan, which is why she had been quick to accept Mandalore's encouragement to seek out the jetiise and learn to use this gift. And yet, she knew that if they were to accept her for training, the Jedi would require her to relinquish all her attachments to the very people she sought to honor. Love for her family, kinship with her clan, and dedication to Mandalore would all have to be sacrificed.

To honor them, she would have to be apart from them. _Dar'manda._

This Force was a damnable gift.

Having sensed that Ven was struggling to accept the sacrifice being required of her, Bastila had suggested they delay meeting with the Jedi High Council until the following morning. Ven had accepted with the hope that sleep might settle her thoughts.

That hope, along with her sleep, was displaced by visions.

The place Ven found herself in the vision was familiar, though she could not understand why. The large room was enclosed with walls of metal covered with lights and electronic devices like the inside of a ship, with one wall covered in smallish hatches leading into what she knew to be escape pods. She turned to examine the rest of her surroundings.

On the bulkhead opposite the hatches was a large closed doorway. Seeking a way out, she approached the sealed doors and began to look for some sort of control to open them. She found it on the side of the door, but to her dismay, the control was much too high—or rather, she was much too short—to reach it.

Confused and panicking, she placed her small hands on the door and began to push, to beat on them, hoping that anyone might hear her.

She was answered by a howl of metal groaning under stress and the unmistakable shudder of a distant explosion. Nearer, she heard hissing and clashing from the other side of the doors. She did not know what sort of weapons would make such a noise, but she understood the sounds of battle.

_They_ were here. She didn't need to know just who _they_ were; she only needed to know that beyond that door lay danger.

Ven turned from the door and ran to the far end of the room, seeking a place to hide, but found none. The control panel for the door erupted in a fit of unnatural blue electricity and Ven flattened herself against the wall furthest from the doorway, which shuddered and threw itself open ahead of _them_.

A shadow, robed in black, staggered backward into the room, recovering its balance and raising a blazing blade of crimson into a guard position. As though answering a challenge, a shaft of gleaming blue swept into the room ahead of its wielder—a herald in purest white—driving the shadow backwards amidst a flurry of impossibly accurate strikes.

Behind the white herald, a woman appeared, backing into the room with a swirling cacophony of bright amber, not only deflecting blaster shots from the outside, but sending some of them hurtling back at her attackers.

The woman—her face familiar—gestured with one hand and the doors shrieked in protest as they slammed themselves closed, leaving additional blasterfire to thump harmlessly against the metal barrier. She turned, bringing twin blades of amber to bear to assist the herald in white.

"It's over, Acrimea," the one in white said calmly. "There's nowhere left to run. Your fleet has been destroyed, your forces are in disarray, and Malak has been dead for months."

"_I_ am the Dark Lord now," the shadow hissed. "Miserable _traitors_."

Red struck out against blue, but was deflected easily. The one in white took a quick glance in Ven's direction.

"Bastila! Handle the apprentice!"

The woman turned in Ven's direction, twirling those angry shafts of amber and fixed her with a look of defiance. Ven looked about in panic, wondering if another of those dark shadows was nearby her to draw such ire, but only found herself, shrouded completely in black.

The one in white feinted and then lunged. The red weapon of the shadow exploded in a shower of sparks and debris, and the blue blade severed flesh. The shadow fell backward with a scream into one of the pods.

Ven staggered forward involuntarily, reaching out. "_Mother!_" The shriek left her lips unbidden as a confusing tempest of loss—and of all things, gratitude—overcame her. Her hood of black cloth fell back from her head to rest on her shoulders.

A look of shock crossed the woman's face and her blades dissipated. "Revan, look." The woman approached slowly. "Acrimea's apprentice is a… _child_; her _daughter_."

"Stay back!" Ven squealed, pushing her hands out toward the woman. To her surprise, Bastila fell over as though she'd been struck by something.

The herald in white—Revan—deactivated the weapon of blue light and approached Bastila, giving her a chuckle while offering a hand. "Careful. Even the smallest gizka has teeth."

The hatch where the shadow fell snapped shut suddenly, grabbing all their attention. The deck plating shuddered with the ejection of the pod.

"She's getting away!" Bastila shouted in annoyance. "_Again_."

"Wounded and defeated," Revan noted. "Acrimea's attempt to rally what's left of the Sith only made them easier for Carth's task force to eradicate—there's nobody left to follow her."

"Still," Bastila complained, "I don't like the idea of another aspiring Sith Lord running free through the galaxy."

Revan ignored the comment and turned to face Ven, approaching slowly. "I won't harm you, little one."

Ven backed herself up against the bulkhead despite the white herald's assurance.

"Do you have a name?" Revan asked.

She looked to the place where the shadow had escaped—had _abandoned_ her—and gulped. She returned her attention to the figure in white and thought she could see a smile on the face that lay hidden under the hood.

"Teion," Ven said softly, uttering a name that was altogether foreign to her, and yet somehow familiar. "Teion Qel-Droma."

The vision began to dissipate, flinging Ven through imagery of her past while Revan and Bastila argued over whether she should be taken to the Council for training or be hidden away for her own safety. The one named Revan apparently won the argument, taking Ven to a grumpy old man whose voice she recognized as Mandalore's.

The faces of her _veman'aliit_—her true family—were happy as they accepted her from Mandalore. Her father smirked in frustration while trying to show her how to build a fire with sticks and pebbles. Her mother comforted her while preparing a ritual trial of strength to celebrate Ven's first blood of womanhood. Father roared with pride upon seeing her wearing beskar'gam for the first time. Mother argued with her for embracing the 'old ways' like Father. Mandalore watched her scatter Father's ashes and promised to hunt with her in his place.

Ven woke to find herself covered in sweat and with Bastila's voice calling her name.

"Easy," Bastila said, placing a hand on Ven's bare shoulder. "You didn't answer the door when I arrived."

Ven sat up on the cot and looked at her unfamiliar surroundings. Sunlight streamed in through the slats covering the windows of the small dormitory room, indicating that it was at least morning.

"I had a dream," Ven said, pulling a sheet around her to cover her nakedness. "But it wasn't just a dream."

Bastila didn't seem surprised. "The Jedi Temple is built atop a nexus of natural energy; such visions are not uncommon here," she explained. "Was it the past or the future you saw?"

"The past," Ven answered, swinging her legs off the side of the cot. "I dreamt of _you_… and the one called Revan."

The Jedi nodded. "Yes. Revan and I encountered you many years ago."

"I think I knocked you down," Ven said, giving her a teasing smirk.

Bastila blushed. "Pushed a bit, but I certainly did _not_ fall." She was a bad liar.

"Acrimea," Ven recalled the name. "Who was she?"

Bastila's eyebrows raised a bit. "That must have been some dream." She looked at Ven carefully for a moment as if considering something before sighing. "Very well.

"Her name was once Aressia Qel-Droma," Bastila explained. "I was her Padawan, briefly, until the latter years of the Mandalorian Wars. She left the Order, and me, to follow another young Jedi to war."

"Revan," Ven guessed. "I've heard Mandalore speak that name before."

Bastila nodded. "Aressia supported Revan's cause, and served as a Jedi General. She commanded many Republic fleets in Revan's campaign against the Mandalorians. And, like the other Jedi that went to war with them, she became a Sith and turned against the Republic.

"She changed her name to Acrimea and commanded much of the Sith armada," she continued. "Revan was betrayed by Darth Malak and ultimately redeemed. With Revan's help, the Republic was able to crush the Sith. When Malak was destroyed, Acrimea fled with what remained of their fleet and tried to rally the Sith by declaring herself the new Dark Lord. We tracked her down, eventually, and Revan defeated her in combat."

"But she escaped," Ven noted.

"Yes, she did."

Ven hesitated. "And the child you found—Teion Qel-Droma—"

"Was you," Bastila finished, giving her a smile. "I wanted to have you trained as a Jedi, but Revan thought you would always be in danger as long as Acrimea lived, and so we convinced Mandalore to hide you among his people. Considering it kept you safe through the Dark Wars, I think the decision was wise."

"It was a good decision," Ven agreed, thinking fondly of her family, "for more reasons than just my safety."

Bastila stood and straightened her brown garments. "The question that remains," she mused, looking into Ven's eyes, "is whether or not you can separate yourself from the life you've loved without being destroyed by the loss."

Ven lowered her head. "I cannot forget my family or my clan."

"You aren't required to forget them," Bastila assured her. "But to become a Jedi, you will have to love them from afar, without feeling loss or regret for a life to which you cannot return."

Ven swallowed away a small knot of sadness that tried to invade her throat. "Is that possible?"

Bastila cocked her head to one side. "Your father died, did he not?"

"Yes," she answered.

"And when you think of him, do you choose to remember the love you felt for him, or the pain of losing him?"

"His death brought glory to our clan," Ven said sharply. "To carry his memory with pain in my heart would invite dishonor."

Bastila nodded. "And as a Jedi, to carry the memory of losing your clan with pain in your heart would lead you into darkness and depravity."

"I think I understand," Ven replied.

"Good," Bastila said, sounding pleased. She turned to exit the small room and paused to say, "The Council will expect to see you soon. You have facilities for cleaning and changing—garments are available if you require them—and any of the droids roaming about the dormitory can direct you to the dining hall if you'd like a hot meal."


	4. Chapter 4 : The Braided Bimm

"I think the term _corporatocracy_ is being a bit melodramatic," said Kareen Drovv, turning his head to fix Chancellor Gholtine with a fake smile. "I prefer to think of it more like… purchasing a controlling interest in another business."

Gholtine glared at the aging Arkanian man. "If word ever gets out that Czerka is subverting the Republic by bribing Senators, it'll be called _treason_."

Drovv chuckled in amusement. "Call it whatever you like; it's _legal_."

"Be careful," admonished a cloaked figure represented by a shimmering blue hologram emanating from the Chancellor's desk. "Financing large portions of the Republic's considerable debt may be technically legal, but if you continue to apply relentless pressure to the opposition against my advisement, then you risk undoing all of the progress we have made and losing all those precious quintillions of credits in unrestricted trade agreements."

"Progress?" Drovv said rhetorically, frowning at the hologram. "Lady Acrimea, you've claimed to be aiding us for nearly five years now, but your results have been less than impressive. I'm just following through on the model that has been working: buy the systems whose Senators can be bribed and make life considerably more difficult for the opposition."

"Don't be a fool," the hologram hissed. "The gentle corruption of thousands of politicians takes _time_, even for a Sith Lord."

Drovv shook his head. "From where I sit, it looks like _my money_ is doing all the work. Not a single Senator has come around to our way of thinking without a generous incentive financed by my company."

"Then you are blind, as well as a fool," Acrimea spat, surprising Gholtine that _anyone_ would dare to call the head of Czerka Corporation a fool. "Do you honestly think all those Senators have so readily accepted your financial overtures because they blindly believe they'll never be caught?"

"Ah, I see," Drovv said dryly. "I suppose it's too much to ask that your 'gentle corruption' work a little more effectively so that it doesn't cost me quite so large a fortune?"

"Listen to the woman," Gholtine urged, pulling up his long green sleeves. "Czerka isn't losing any money in this deal, so long as we reach the endgame with a solid majority in the Senate. There aren't enough of the dissident systems firmly ready to secede from the Republic to leave us with a majority just yet, but in a few years we'll—"

"A few _years_?" Drovv exclaimed, interrupting the Chancellor. "My shareholders are already questioning my reasoning for financing so much of the Republic's debt."

"And rightly they should," Acrimea crooned. "But you're committed to the process now, and you will be venerated once this all comes to fruition. I _cannot_ risk exposing myself to the Jedi with extensive acts of corruption, so you _will_ be patient."

"No," Drovv said dryly, turning his head to Gholtine. "Absolutely not. I'm done with this… _pretender_. If Lady Acrimea had any real power at all, she wouldn't need our help. A _real_ Sith would just take the galaxy by the throat and conquer it like Rev—"

Drovv was suddenly speechless, his words cut off. Gholtine raised an eyebrow at the Arkanian who rose from his seat, clutching at his throat as though he were choking, cautiously at first, but then much more earnestly when he began to gasp loudly. The Chancellor winced when Drovv began to draw blood by scraping madly with his clawed fingers.

"Chancellor," Acrimea said, her hologram turning to look at him with a face not visible from beneath her dark hood. "I suspect that our business partner is no longer paying attention, so I will expect you to make him understand this lesson. I can kill him with merely a thought from halfway across the galaxy; that should be a sufficient demonstration of my power. He is my _servant_. He will do what I wish, when I wish it. If he fails to please me again, then we will proceed to instruction of a far more personal and unpleasant nature."

Drovv collapsed to the floor of the Chancellor's office, his chest heaving to suck in air.

"Do I make myself clear?" the hologram asked.

Chancellor Gholtine was quick to nod his understanding. "Quite clear, my Lady."

* * *

A solemn obelisk of gray stone occupied the center of the Jedi High Council's circular chamber, bearing four polished ribs toward its pinnacle. Each rib was inscribed with what appeared to be a single word in multiple languages in etched relief: _skill, flesh, courage, spirit_. While the sculpted stone was obviously the centerpiece of the otherwise austere chamber, its artistry had at some point been marred by what was now the obelisk's most distinguishing feature: a wound; a narrow hole that had been violently burned through the stone's midsection.

Ven could only guess at the wounded stone's meaning and purpose, but she found it to be a welcome focus to distract her mind from her current sense of discomfort and vulnerability. In retrospect, she should have chosen a different occasion to test her ability to part with her lifestyle as a Mandalorian. After speaking with Bastila earlier in the morning, Ven had decided that appearing before the Council in full armor with merely her helmet removed would not send a strong enough message to either the Council or herself, and instead she had taken a more drastic course of action.

Her appearance in the Council's chamber wearing merely a plain black tunic and tan pants seemed to have pleasantly surprised a few of the Council members, Bastila included, but the novelty of the situation had passed quickly. The cool dry air in the chamber was far removed from the climate of Dxun's jungles, leaving Ven in chilly discomfort to face the group of people that would decide whether or not she would have a future among their kind.

Considering herself fortunate that Mandalore was not present to chastise her habit of unnecessarily making situations more difficult, Ven deliberately focused on the wounded stone obelisk to calm herself and ignore the wordless conversation that seemed to be passing between the small group of Jedi Masters. Their inquiries had been superficial pleasantries up to a point, but after being asked to relate her impressions of the previous night's dream, the Jedi began to take an increasing interest in her adopted family and heritage.

She took nothing for granted and addressed every topic in as much detail as possible while trying to remain brief. For two hours, she was subjected to aptitude tests and conversational topics including religious beliefs, her opinions of the Mandalorian Wars, economics, and astronomy. Ven had been grateful that the topics covered things in which she was not only interested, but also moderately knowledgeable. When the discussion turned to the odd subject of metallurgy, however, she realized that the topics weren't being chosen by the Jedi; they were picking what questions to ask her based upon the things she thought about while trying to settle her nervous discomfort during the awkward periods of silence.

Her response to discovering the intrusion, she belatedly concluded, was another of their tests. Ven suppressed the sensation of violation and tried to formulate an intelligent answer to the question.

Mical, the graying blond-haired man in plain brown robes who seemed to be in a role of leadership within the Council, gave her a disarming smile that broke her concentration. "That will be all," he informed her. "We appreciate your time and honesty."

Ven gave him a small bow of her head. "Thank you, Masters."

"We should reach a decision before the end of the day," he added. "Feel free to enjoy our hospitality here at the Temple in the interim."

"Thank you, again," she said before turning and walking out of the chamber. The door sealed behind her and she blew out a relieved breath, grateful to be done with the ordeal.

With the pressure of meeting expectations lifted, her body was quick to remind her that she hadn't eaten a proper meal since leaving Dxun. Deciding that she could reflect on her answers and eat at the same time, Ven headed for the lift that would take her back to the base of the Temple spire.

Several minutes and two helpful protocol droids later, she found the dining hall and procured a meal that was assured to be species-appropriate from a serving droid. Despite being mid-day, Ven was surprised to find the area sparsely populated. A small crowd of children were off in a corner, dining and being noisy amongst themselves, but aside from the adults accompanying the children and a few patrons that arrived behind her, the rest of the hall was vacant.

Ven settled into a nearby booth and proceeded to examine her meal. The noticeable lack of anything resembling meat and the unknown alien origin of the odd assortment of unrecognizable grains and vegetables drew a frown from her. She poked a rather bland-looking slice of some fleshy yellow plant that looked like it had cooked for far too long.

She looked up when another being slid into the booth across from her.

The smallish brown fur-covered being with floppy ears and a short snout gave her a cheerful smile. "Never get the 'human-compatible' meal," the creature—a Bimm if Ven guessed correctly—said cordially. "They make them so generic to accommodate all sorts of allergy and dietary issues that they end up being devoid of flavor."

"Thanks for the warning," she said with a shrug.

"I'm Jeenik," the Bimm introduced himself.

"Ven," she replied.

"You're the Mandalorian that arrived with Master Shan last night, yes?"

Ven nodded. "I suppose the armor wasn't very subtle."

"Are you here as an Initiate?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "I met with the High Council—they're deciding whether or not to train me."

The Bimm's mouth elongated into a grin. "How long did it take you to realize they were in your head?"

Ven smirked. "About two hours, I think."

"Good for you," he chortled. "That's not bad, really."

"So, are you a Jedi?" Ven asked.

"Padawan," Jeenik replied, using his hand to draw attention to an odd-looking braid of dark black hair that was attached to a ring pierced through his right ear. "I'm Master Shan's apprentice."

Ven raised her eyebrows curiously. "Bastila is your Master?"

He nodded in confirmation.

"Do Masters have more than one apprentice?" she inquired.

Jeenik shook his furry head. "I'm told they considered it since there are so few Jedi, but the Masters only take one apprentice at a time. Something about one well-trained Jedi Knight being worth more than ten partially-trained."

"I see," Ven said. "Bastila is the only Master I've had any contact with. I guess I assumed she would be the one to train me."

Jeenik shrugged. "Can't say. There are close to a hundred Initiates here at the Temple, but there just aren't enough Jedi Knights to train them all."

"I didn't realize there was that much competition for training," Ven noted.

The Bimm gave her an animated shrug. "I waited seven years for a Master."

"That's… an awfully long time," Ven said thoughtfully.

"Braids are hard to come by," he said sympathetically.

Ven looked at his braid curiously. "That isn't your hair, is it?"

Jeenik laughed. "No, it isn't. It's sort of a running gag." He gestured toward where the children were gathered in the corner with their adult handlers. "See that big goofy-looking pink Gungan with the younglings? That Borrt.

"He was among the first Initiates when the Masters started rebuilding the Order. His classmates decided to revive an old tradition of apprentices wearing a braid in their hair in honor of their Master. Borrt was still really young and gullible at the time, and the other Initiates had him convinced that he could never be accepted as an apprentice since he didn't have any hair to braid."

Ven rolled her eyes.

"Mean prank, I know," Jeenik said, "but it turned out that Borrt was the first one of them to be selected as a Padawan—by Master Visas Marr, no less. When he explained what the other Initiates told him about needing a braid, Master Marr cut off a lock of her own hair and made a braid for him.

"He stopped wearing it when they made him a Knight, of course," Jeenik added, "and when Bastila took me as her apprentice, Borrt gave his braid to me since my fur doesn't get long enough."

Ven gave him a half smile. "It sounds like you have your own tradition."

"Well, if we're going to talk tradition," Jeenik said with a mischievous grin, "then I should show you the most sacred rite taught to all Jedi."

Ven raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "Do you think that's wise, considering the Council hasn't decided—"

"Nonsense," the Bimm interrupted with a dismissing wave. "It's never too early to learn the best way to sneak out of the Temple and find some _real_ food."

Ven shoved the dish full of mundane overcooked plants aside and smiled. "Lead the way."


End file.
